Seems like I heard about this series (SERIES!) of books and everything about them all at once: One day nothing, the next day, they’re all over the library, internet, and on the cover of Entertainment frigging Weekly. Alan Moore was right about the vaporous nature of accessible information.

After a quick, curious read through a few chapters, I actually give more credit to this series than Twilight for one simple reason: While I found the prose horrible and the language limited and simplistic, and really of no better or worse quality than any number of Harlequin romance books that you could hit blindfolded with a dart in a bookstore – at the very least, it seems to embrace what it actually is a LOT more than Twilight ever did. Stephanie Meyer wrapped a ham-fisted abstinence allegory around a glorified self-insert fan fiction. This book began it’s life as fan fiction, without the pretense, and was glorified.